


don't grow tired of me (in the dark come find me)

by TheBlackWook



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: (others in special guest appearances but too short to properly tag them), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Puns, M/M, Mild Smut, Muangthong United, Robbie goes to Thailand and it's a lot to handle, retirement fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackWook/pseuds/TheBlackWook
Summary: “What does it feel like, Macca?”“What feels like what?”“Retiring.”……“I s’ppose it’s like dying in a way."





	don't grow tired of me (in the dark come find me)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, hello to probably, like, the 10 people who will read that ! Thank you so much ! This fic is the perfect embodiment of "oops my hand slipped" because I only intended for it to be 1k/1.5k and yet, here we are! 
> 
> My hugest thanks to my lovely friends Sam, Lucy, Rosie and Mandy for your constant support and your help for grammar and spelling mistakes: I love you, you're the best <3 !!
> 
> See end notes for more information and "behind the scenes" details !

It’s a long, slow death. Painful one, that.

Innit?

Here’s how the story goes:

**ROBBIE FOWLER JOINS TEAM IN THAILAND**  
_Former England and Liverpool forward Robbie Fowler has joined Muangthong United and will be formally unveiled on Sunday._

He goes to Thailand.

What will a money stint do compared to all he’s done already in his career? It’ll just extend the list of his bad decisions; it’s not going to make that much of a difference anyway. He made mistakes in the past, he’ll make mistakes in years to come, so why stop now? It’s not like there’s something (someone) to stop him anyway. Well…

(The phone had chimed in when he was still packing.

  
**MACCA**  
_Thailand? Mate, wtf_

Steve had texted him. Robbie had not told him in advance.

He had left the text unread for days before typing out his answer.

  
**YOU**  
_snot like I have any pride left, right?_

He did not answer.)

Thailand is… Different and not at all. He still gets a warm welcome, a sea of fans wearing his name on their backs, the letters perfectly aligned and shining bright in the sun (sometimes he wonders if they know the letters have stopped shining long ago for him). It feels strange, everything looking so familiar and yet nothing being the same at all. He registers being walked around the airport and signing autographs in a daze but he feels he is not really here. 

They call him _God_ too. He wonders if they know he’s fallen from heaven a long time ago, wings cut off long before he even realised it. 

*

“The fucking Prime Minister, mate.” Steve says over the phone.

He had never been able to stay away for too long. Nor had Robbie, for that matter. 

The phone had rung just once in the suffocating hotel room before the black-haired man had answered. Hearing Steve’s - his _best friend_ \- voice had felt like the first breath of fresh air he had inhaled ever since he arrived.

“I know.” He says, voice soft, hardly believing it himself.

In fact, he can hardly believe he is really doing this. It doesn’t feel real, it doesn’t feel right. Steve (always) brings him back to earth.

“Your tiny ears better not have doubled in size with all the attention.”

It’s so easy to fall back in that routine. He grips the phone harder, push it closer to said tiny ears, ever so slightly. 

Robbie laughs- and for a moment, it feels right.

*

It’s too much too soon already. He was no fool, he knew what coming to Thailand meant, he was old but not stupid. Yet, he hadn’t thought he would have to step one worn out foot onto the other side of the pitch so soon.

He remembers. He feels old.

He remembers. 

“Have you ever thought of what you’re going to do after ?” Steve had asked, tracing random patterns on Robbie’s bare, smooth chest, fingertips soft on the hot skin.

“After what ? Making love to you ? Probably do that a second time.” He had wiggled his eyebrows and kissed him, merely a peck on the lips. “And probably a third time.” He had kissed him longer this time, brushing his lips against Macca’s “And another time, and another time, and another time.” He had continued, kissing his way down the blonde’s throat. 

Steve had laughed and smacked his shoulder gently.

“Not that, you daft boy.” His voice had quietened a little then, as if he had been growing more serious. Maybe he had been. “I was talking about after being a player and all that.”

Steve had looked up at him, eyes so earnest it had taken Robbie by surprise. His throat had been dry suddenly, just like he had been age twelve for the maths exam with Miss Jenny. 

“I dunno. I’m only twenty-one, Macca. I have time.” (he doesn’t, really). 

He had scooted closer to Steve, hiding a hand in the golden curls.

“Maybe I’ll be a gaffer, me. Coach the lads, trust the littluns.” He had paused, licking his lips. “You could be my assistant.”

Steve had huffed. “Why would I be your assistant? I’m older than you!” 

Robbie had begun nuzzling Macca’s neck again, grazing his lips upon the red spots he had left there a few moments ago. 

“Because you love me? Who cares, as long as we’re the team.” He had mumbled in between lazy kisses on Macca’s throat. “Not to mention you’d get all the benefits of being the very personal and close assistant of the boss.” 

“Would I, now?” Steve had mused, wrapping an arm around Robbie’s waist and bringing him flush against him. 

It had felt like a promise.

They had been late for training the next day. They wouldn’t have had it any other way. They were young, wild and free, unstoppable and unbreakable. They were forever. 

Macca left Liverpool. 

Robbie did as well. Eventually. 

He remembers.

He remembers and his chest tightens.

*

He doesn’t really know what to say for his first meeting. It’s already a good thing the assistants stayed behind and he didn’t have to find new ones. Or maybe not. Robbie looks away for a minute as they’re watching him expectantly. 

He’s not nervous, not really. But he feels odd. He had not felt odd for his first debuts.

He remembers the way a grin had tugged at his lips when the gaffer had told him he would make his debut, excitement barely contained when he had heard the words. He was seeing it all already:

**LOCAL LAD FROM TOXTETH DEBUTS WITH LIVERPOOL**  
_New Toxteth Terror ? 18-year-old Robert Fowler nets his first goal during the League Cup win against Fulham_

He had felt giddy but focused, sparks waiting to shine at the end of his black boots - he had cleaned them himself, still used to do that for the other pros despite having trained with them for a few months.

Everything would be fine, he had told himself. He had Steve.

He doesn’t, now. He doesn’t have anyone. 

He is stuck here in Thailand like his clothes stick to his skin because of the humidity and his sweat. He’s suffocating, unable to find somewhere to breathe. He pulls at the collar of his polo, as if that can help - a naive fantasy. He should know better at his age. But he never really learned. 

(“Hey Macca…” 

“Yeah?”

He had pulled at his collar too, then, his throat tight, words dying on his lips. Words his tongue had twisted over a countless times, ones he had never spoken out loud. Words he was afraid to voice, scared they would get bigger and bigger until their weight would crush them both. 

Robbie had wanted to say _I’m gonna miss you_. He had wanted to say _S’not gonna be the same without ya_. He had had so many things to tell him, so many letters ready to roll off his tongue. So many letters he found himself unable to voice.

He had wanted to say Please, don't go. 

He had wanted to say _I love you_. 

This is what he had gone for instead:

“Try not to get sunburnt the minute you step into Spain, will ya?”

Steve had chuckled quietly, looking down. Robbie didn’t want to see the disappointment there and preferred to think he had dreamt seeing it in Macca’s eyes.)

Robbie clears his throat, catching the assistants’ attention. 

He tries. He tries a lot, in fact. He tells them about ideas he has - some he has experienced himself and some he has only read about - to improve training sessions. He tells them about specific trainings for the strikers. He listens as well, he asks questions a lot. But still, something feels odd about all of this. It doesn’t help that the assistants speak in a broken English while Robbie speaks just as usual- extremely Scouse. 

This is going to be harder than he has thought. Oh, how he wished he was not alone here. Why did he ever go to Thailand in the first place? What was he thinking?

(If he is honest, he knows why.

“Come home, Growler.” Steve had told him over the phone once. 

He sounded as if he had just come out of bed and given the time difference between England and Australia, he probably had. Robbie would have smiled if he had not been choking up for air at the soft confession. They called each other often, still trying to figure out this smartphone thing and time zones. 

Robbie had gulped, suddenly glad there was entire oceans between him and his best friend. Though, he figured said oceans wouldn’t keep said best friend from reading him like an open book, even if it was through a telephone call. 

Home. _Growler_. Home to him. _Home to Steve._

He had done everything in his power to keep his voice even and his heartbeat at a normal pace:

“Yeah, maybe I'll just do that.”

He had come back to England. But his home was empty and cold and the night out at the pub - lenient hands and soft gazes - had scared him.  
He had fucked off a month later.)

He feels it important to speak to the group before his first training session as the coach. He’s not sure why, seeing as most of his words need to be translated but he does it anyway, because that’s the way he has always done things. 

They look focused at least, Robbie takes that as a win. He feels lucky there isn't a little Robbie Fowler or Steve McManaman on his team. They'd probably be better in the league - especially with the magical winger - but at least white hair of worry and frustration can wait. 

*

It’s weird filling in two different roles. He comes to practice and does all the exercices, ones he discussed with his assistants. He plays the game on the weekend and fits into the tactic, one he has chosen himself. He’s early for training and usually the last to leave, and not because he wants to work on his shots. He talks to the guys but it’s not the same, he lingers less, he jokes less. 

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act and this state of in-between is only reinforcing the uneasy feeling taking its home at the pit of his stomach. What the hell is he supposed to do? Be a bore and be a wise old sage? Keep things as they were before? Was there even a before when he felt nothing but the sensation of not being home at all ever since he had arrived? 

Only God knows, probably, and that’s not him. 

(“So you’re a coach now?” Steve’s brow goes up through the screen.

That Facetime thing is amazing, they’re miles apart and they can still see each other’s stupid mug. They had looked like kids on Christmas morning when they had first managed to make it work.

Robbie smiles, proud and smug, ignoring his doubts for a minute. He always does with Steve.  
“Told ya I’d be a gaffer.”

They both know what he means, what he remembers. Macca licks his lips and mirrors Robbie’s grin. His eyes are soft when he replies, with that glimmer that tells Robbie he remembers too. 

“I know.” 

People don’t have to know he dreamt of fading golden curls and the English shores that night, far away from hot and humid Thailand. Nobody has to know he forgot about Muangthong for one night. Most nights.)

It hits him after a training, when they’re all sweaty and spent, only wishing for water on their skin. The boys are chatting here and there and beginning to strip. Robbie has never really stared before - there was only one freckled body he would stare at without shame - but he can’t help it that day. 

He looks, silent and alone, and he sees it all. Tattoos covering portions of glistening flesh, muscles of various sizes and level of definition. Visible abs. Flat stomachs and sharp cheeks, far away from the excess of post-games chippies and beers. 

He doesn’t strip. Not with all the other around. He waits for everyone to leave and pretend to busy himself into his notes instead. He doesn’t even write something relevant on them, just pretend scribbling, swallowing hard every now and again. He feels stupid, like a scared Everton blue kid from Toxteth on his first day at the Liverpool red academy. Some of his mates back home would be having the laugh of their lives.

When everyone has left, he stands up on shaky legs and goes towards one of the mirrors of the dressing room. He only sees his reflection and yet he takes a breath.  
He lifts his jersey up. 

He looks back at the mirror and all he sees is a man that has been clinging to his career for far too long and would look better in a Legends game, playing sixty minutes at most. People in England - all over the football world - must know that already, except him. 

He lifts his jersey up and he thinks: _What the hell am I doing here?_

*

(“What does it feel like, Macca?”

“What feels like what?”

“Retiring.”

…

…

“I s’ppose it’s like dying in a way. Not that I know what that actually feels like, thank god. But it feels like how I imagine it to be.”

“Were you scared?”

“Not really.”

“I’m fucking terrified.”)

*

It keeps him up at night, turning and tossing in his bed, the soft purring of the fan - which barely does any good - his only companion. Most mornings, he wakes up in sweat, sheets thrown on the floor and an aching in his muscles more and more present each day. Where has the time when he was young and unbreakable gone? Some nights he hears a sputtering car in the wee hours of the morning, probably one of the neighbours’ kid. He dreads it. Every time. He can’t help it but he always connect the sound to his (dying) career and with each breath he takes, he fears he has made a mistake by coming here; he fears he will never be prepared to let go. He fears goodbyes might not be his forte, in everything, people and football alike.

Truth is, he has to get away from Thailand. Not necessarily by ending his contract, this is still a lot of money, he’d be a damn fool for turning it down. Rather, he can arrange for leaves of absence and that’s better than nothing. Right? He has to leave, he has to leave, he has to leave. 

So that's what he does. 

*

The first time he doesn't even have to come up with an excuse. It's the international break and he has two whole weeks ahead of him. Two whole weeks of freedom, two whole weeks of fresh air. 

He jumps on the first plane to England. He doesn’t call Steve. 

He spends his time with his mum mostly, it’s been a while and all that jazz. It makes him feel like he’s a little boy again, little Robert Ryder dribbling along the battered Toxteth streets, a blue shirt adorning his frail shoulders. It was a time when he would be out most of the days, playing with his friends and coming home solely when it was time for dinner. It was a time when all he did at school was mostly look out the window and tap his foot against the floor, dying to have a ball at his toes.

Everything was so simple then. 

He’d go to his mum’s then to his dad’s and vice versa, he’d play football all day long - and all night long if people had let him - and that was about it. There was no time to think about money, only the ball, the goal and the red shirt he had come to love. There was no time to ponder about feelings and what-ifs, only Macca’s smile whenever they would meet, only his outstretched arms when he’d scored his first goal - or any goal for that matter.

He watches England tying against Montenegro. Two early goals, a collapse in the second half, Rooney takes the red. They were already qualified anyway. Come June, he’ll let himself believe it’ll be coming home, like the rest of the country, before going back to nurse that fifty years of hurt or however long it’s been. 

“What a shame they couldn’t win.” His mum comments as she finishes her dinner. 

“Indeed.”

“I’m sure you would have scored one. You know back in the days…”

Robbie rolls his eyes with a fond smile. He lets his mother talk, lets her indulge in a bit of pride for her son - for him - it doesn’t hurt. 

“Well, you or that giant blonde friend of yours. Steven, is it?”

“Steve.” He corrects unconsciously, in a heartbeat.

“Yes, Steve! Ah, you used to be such a great duo together. It’s been a while since I last saw him. Have you heard from him recently? He always was so skinny, I hope he’s eating properly.”

Robbie smiles awkwardly. It’s like his mum knows where to push even when she’s not supposed to know. Sometimes Robbie believes she has magic powers or something. He clears his throat:

“Yes, he’s fine. Busy working a lot on TV.”

He doesn’t need to tell her - and remind himself - that he has not dared touch Steve’s contact on the screen of his phone, that he’s acting like a well and proper coward. It’s better - and easier - to lie. 

*

He comes back quickly. 

He goes to Anfield and see Liverpool against City. Two former clubs, only one really matters, only one colour does; the one that matches his blood. The affair is done in two minutes and doesn’t evolve much. It’s almost boring he must confess. 

He goes to the dressing rooms after the final whistle. He fits in naturally, people barely lift a brow at his presence. 

“What are you doing here, Mr I-fuck-off-to-the-end-of-the-world?” Carra smiles when he sees Robbie, clasping his shoulders with his strong hands. 

“Such the enthusiastic, Carra, as always.” Robbie jokes before embracing him briefly. 

“Someone has to.” He winks

They exchange chitchat for a couple minutes before the Liverpool player joins his teammates to change. He spent the game on the bench. Robbie thinks of his own, currently empty, bench back in Thailand. He wonders if Jamie, too, thinks of after.

They go to the pub afterwards, Stevie joins them. It’s a cold night here in Liverpool and they let themselves be engulfed in the warmth of the people huddled together on the stools or at the tables, creating a soft hubbub in the dim lit bar. 

Although the two players are not satisfied with the game, it’s easy to fall back on their old pattern, pleasant conversation, laughs and that older and little brothers dynamic. They grew up at the Academy after all. Robbie is not sure if he’s truly an example to be followed these days but he can never forget the young lads Jamie and Stevie had been, working for a chance to appear with the pros. 

“How’s Macca?” Jamie asks at some point. 

Robbie looks up at the ceiling, thinking someone really must has it for him up there. 

“Fine.” 

“What do you mean fine. Just fine? No extensive account of his latest adventures?” the youngest joins in.

“I do _not_ make extensive accounts of Macca’s life.”

Carra and Stevie looks at each other with a raised eyebrow before looking back at him, incredulous. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” Steven says hands in the air, too innocently to actually mean it.

Robbie gives them a pointed look.

“S’just…” Jamie begins,unsure. “You always have something to say about him, what he’s up to, what he’s eaten for breakfast.”

The striker takes a sip of his beer, letting the bitter taste distract him for a minute. He’ll probably pay for it on the pitch in a week but he really cannot be bothered right now. 

“It’s complicated.” He simply answers.

“Oh, just like our Carra and that Neville of his?” Stevie chimes in excitedly.

Jamie smacks Stevie on the back of his head and proceeds to argue for the next five minutes that Gary Sodding Neville is not his, and that he dreams he can rot in a fire and that he’d rather become an Everton legend than think about what his captain implied. 

Robbie smiles fondly, blurry memories from the Academy coming back. At least, some things never change. It’s comforting. 

They don't stay long, Carra's days of debauchery long put behind him. Besides, they're not as young as they used to be. Stevie is tipsy and trying - failing - to pay their taxi when Fowler feels Carra’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Call him. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

He doesn’t need to say more for Robbie to understand. 

“Stuff left unsaid s’just bad.”

When has Carra become serious and mature?

*

He subscribes for that expansive cable tv which gives him english channels. Nobody has to know he also asked for ESPN. What’s a little extra money thrown away when he can look at Macca’s squinting clear eyes and light curls when he can’t find sleep? It’s yet another reminder he hasn’t outright told Steve - his _best friend_ for fuck’s sake - he went to England. Twice. 

He takes up watching the MLS and thinks it might be making it up for his cowardice. It doesn’t, not really. But it helps, in an odd sort of way. He goes back to sleep more often than not, the hour being too early for him with the timezones. But seeing Macca’s freckled face is always worth it. 

He probably spends too much time in front of his TV, or so the fans seem to think. 

He doesn’t care.

(“Let them talk, Growler.” Steve had told him over the phone. 

He was the one who had called. Robbie had considered not answering but his instinct proved treacherous. If the pundit had known about his latest visit to England, he had not mentioned it. The striker had not dared ask. 

The conversation had settled pleasantly, silent - or almost - at some point or another. It was easy. It was like the old times, it always was. No words needed, just the knowledge they were both there, together, one way or another. 

“You comin’ home for Christmas?” Macca had asked suddenly.

“I don’t know.”

“Fuck Thailand.”

Robbie heard _I miss you_.)

*

**#FOWLEROUT**  
_New hashtag takes off after new defeat of Muangthong United._

It still hits him hard when he first hears about it. He can’t say he’s surprised but god does it hurts. It’s like he’s pushed towards the final point of his career but won’t make it at the budding new one. He feels trapped, the metaphorical punch in the guts he received makes him choke, out of air.

So he does the only thing he knows best: run. _Go Robbie Go_, that was how the song went, right?

He talks with clubs in India. If he can’t be good at coaching then he’ll still cling onto the ragged shreds of his playing days. He never learns. He has never learnt. Lately he simply believes he will die on a pitch and he’s mostly at peace with the idea. Almost. 

(“Stopping isn’t bad, mate.” Macca, as always.

Robbie called him. Finally. 

“It’s just- The club wasn’t the right fit for you, that’s all. Don’t fret too much on it.”

Steve’s compassion hits him on a whole new level, overwhelmed.

“And look, you’re in a league you know nothing about with badges you only got recently. It’s okay.”

He wants to say that it is, in fact, not okay. He’s not okay. He should be thriving, he should be God again. Instead he simply lives on the deadly shards of his altar, built too soon, for a boy too young to be deified, cold nostalgia and what-ifs now biting his insides with its sharpest teeth. 

He doesn’t say any of these. He simply sighs and nods, even though his best friend can’t see him. He drinks his words, he lets himself be flooded by them, their meaning washing over him. God, he had missed that voice. That voice talking to him solely, not to ladies and gents on ESPN. 

“Failing here doesn’t mean you won’t succeed elsewhere.” Macca goes on. 

His voice is so soft Robbie can picture his face clearly. It’s one he has seen countless of times. Eyes bright and rounder than usual, a tight-lipped smirk going on the side and a few curls refusing to stay in place and brushing his forehead. This is a face he thought would always be his to contemplate, his to witness every new wrinkle, every creases, every fading freckles, every greying temple.

It still could be, he thinks. 

“I don’t deserve you, Steven.” He blurts out, passing a hand over his eyes. 

Steve’s answer is very simple and earnest, quiet and soft.

“I love you, Robbie.”

If his cheeks are wet after he hangs up, it's only the result of the humidity and the air from the fan, not his heart being too full and aching.)

He doesn’t answer when Indian clubs come back to talk.

*

He had had a plan to return to England soon.

But not this one. 

He didn’t knew Ablett that much. He left when Robbie was still at the academy and came back when he left for Leeds. But it doesn’t matter. Because it’s not what Liverpool is about. Liverpool is about family, about sticking to each other in the good and the bad moments. It’s about being a backbone for each and everyone of them. A way of life, a way to live. It’s not so much a matter of an “I” but a matter of an “us”.

Robbie doesn’t like funerals, tough. He goes there, in a black suit too big for him - a habit - and he considers leaving when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head slightly.

Steve.

He exhales slowly. There’s a million things he wants to do, a million things he wants to say. It’s all there written on his face, he’s sure of it. He knows because Steve’s face looks the same. They look at each other in the middle of the aisle, time suspended. Robbie forgets where he is for a second and feels he’s back in Thailand for he can’t seem to breathe properly. He pulls at his collar and it brings back memories, ones during which he wished he had said something. There are so many words on his mind.

But instead of words, he acts for once. 

He embraces his best friend tightly and burrows his head against his chest. It’s firm through the fitting shirt and the scent so familiar. It feels like him, it feels like home. Steve feels like home. He has had the same feeling countless of times, one of the few feelings he kept coming back to, the one that never really left him.  
(He remembers that time, just before Macca had left, when they had spent a whole day like this. Black grieving suits discarded on the floor, platitudes and words of comfort gone when the last people had left the graveyard the day before. It was just them, then. No worries or talks about what they both knew was coming, just them. 

Robbie had tucked Steve’s head under his chin, nuzzling his long golden curls. They had barely spoken a word. What was there to say when one lost a mother anyway? So they had simply laid together in bed, dozing on and off sleep, lulled by the faint sounds of the street below.  
Robbie had wished they could have stayed like this forever.)

They can’t stay like this forever. They’re at a funeral after all and they’ve already stayed longer in each other’s arms than what would be proper for such an event. So they part and they go sit.

The ceremony is simple but beautiful, the church almost feels too small with all the people there. 

_(“Have you ever thought of what you’re going to do **after**?”)_

He listens to the words of the priest, of the family and friends but he doesn’t hear anything.

_(“I s’ppose it’s like **dying** in a way.”)_

He wonders if people would come for him. He begins to shake.

Steve takes his hand.

_(“Come **home**, Growler.”)_

He takes - grips - Robbie’s hand hard, intertwining their fingers, and he doesn’t once let go.

_(“I love **you**, Robbie.”)_

*

At the end of the day, there’s not much to say. A funeral ends, it feels like perhaps another one happened simultaneously. Two men exit a church and leave in the same car, friends and strangers alike too busy to notice their proximity and their arm tightly wrapped around one another’s shoulders. They’re too busy to see their fingers brushing against one another when they sit in the car. They don’t catch a _“Let’s get you home, Growler.”_ whispered like a secret - like a prayer - with no precision whatsoever what (who) home is.

It’s quiet and subtle and they leave the crowded parking lot in an instant, wandering away. When all is said and done, there is not much to fight about or against. It’s easy, simple. 

They don’t have to wander far.

*

As soon as Steve’s door is closed, Robbie grips his neck with one hand and brings him down for a kiss. Oh, how he has dreamt of touching those lips again, of tasting their sweetness and the way they always seem to be so in sync with Robbie’s. 

It’s rough and urgent and far from the tender and slow dreams he has had in the last few months. But suddenly, seeing Macca after all this time, after all the things he left unsaid, Robbie is done being too slow and takes what he thinks is rightfully his. He never stopped calling them his. He never really stopped calling Macca his. Because it’s Steve, it’s that little kid from the inner-city council estate who suddenly grew up at sixteen, just like him. Steve who paved the way for him, who showed him what it took to get there. Steve who was a mad blue with his dad and who decided to play for the other lot, just like him. As far as he can remember, Steve has always been there, in one way or another.

The taller man doesn’t need to be asked twice to answer the kiss with equal fervour. They wasted too much time, not anymore. Febrile long fingers grasp Robbie’s cheek, tentatively at first, then firmly, while his free hand takes hold of his waist. It’s softer and rounder than Macca remembers it. He loves it. 

Robbie is still getting drunk on Steve’s lips when the latter pushes him slightly, heaving. 

“Robbie… Wow” He breathes.

“I know, I usually have that effect on people.” Fowler grins like a teenager who’s just pulled the biggest prank of his life. 

McManaman burst out laughing before biting his best friend’s lower lip, earning a moan for his work.

“Stupid man. I’ve missed you so much.”

They can’t seem to be getting enough of one another and soon enough, shaky hands make a quick work of their vest, their tie - Robbie holds on to Macca’s for a while, still hanging around his neck - and their buttoned-up shirt. 

It’s such an exhilarating feeling to rediscover a body they know so well, or at least used to know. When Steve’s hands falls on Robbie’s stomach, it’s not as firm and as flat as it used to be. It’s rounder and softer, almost like a pillow, the heritage of a weird mix of football and chippies - fried rice and extra sauce of course. Robbie’s hands brush over Macca’s back and he feels the weight of the years, years of pushing his body week in week out.

Football has broken them both but they’re still here. Something to do with their stubborn heads or something. 

There’s a pause in their movement, a sort of reverence to the moment. Robbie remembers (rare) mornings when he had woken up before Steve and caressed his face, his arms, his chest, his sides ever so softly, afraid he might get caught in a moment of sappiness or that he might break him. He remembers the smell of tea he had prepared so many times, sweater too big for him and Macca almost sprawled out on bed, playing - screaming was more accurate - at his Sega Saturn and that one football game. 

The striker brings them both back against one another and the skin to skin contact acts like a spark. 

Robbie’s tongue teases Macca’s and they’re a mess of moans and grunts, feverish hands stumbling on the buckle of their belts and the zipper of their pants, wanting to get rid of the offending piece of clothing as soon as possible. They almost end up ripping their clothes. They need the burning of their flesh against their own, they need the scruff of one to graze the other's smooth face. They need to forget about all these years, living off phone calls and promises that were barely kept; they need to remember the young lads they were, carefree, but with the knowledge that comes with the years. They know better now, and that’s exactly why they seem to be in such a rush - no Ian intended. 

They find their way to Macca’s bedroom, both of them not really sure how they pulled that one off, but they’re both grateful for the comfort of the mattress, relaxing their aging muscles. 

Their underwear have been discarded along the way and it’s almost too much when they finally take care of their growing erections. It's messy, way out of practice and sloppy but god (Robbie) be damned if they'd ever stop. But the old tricks come back to them soon enough and Robbie grunts with a quick flick of Macca’s wrist. He retaliates with a change a pace and a more acute pressure, pushing Macca near the edge. 

“_Fuck_…” The older man says in a strangled voice. “If you want this to last a bit you’d better let me catch a breath.”

Robbie considers ignoring his pleas, grinning at the thought, but reluctantly slows down, catching Steve’s lips for a lazy open mouthed kiss. He eventually leaves the blonde man’s cock to rest his hand on a freckled cheek, playing with some faded curls, wrapping them around his fingers. He has missed the soft velvety feeling horribly, he only realises now. 

Macca’s hand is still going up and down Robbie’s shaft, rewarded by the short breaths and high-pitched sounds the black-haired man lets out. The striker changes their position and he’s straddling Steve, bending down to keep his lips against his own - he naively never wants to have them separated anymore. 

His hands roam his body again, he learns the new, less sculpted but no less beautiful, curves of his hips, the feeling of his firm chest and the bending of his thighs. Robbie stops a hand on his best friend’s forehead, smoothing his brows a little, taking his time for once in his life. He smiles at him.

Steve’s eyes are shining with the light coming through the white curtains, making them more vibrant, his iris as calm as the sea on a sunny, lazy, summer day. He lets himself get lost in them, their ocean colour captivating, scraps of memories flashing by in his head: sheets thrown at the foot of the bed and two bodies piled against one another; half-drunk cups of tea abandoned on the coffee table or atop a chest of drawers, the room sparkled in the faint smell of the spices. He sees a small couch and a pile of woollen sweaters, bodies trying to fit in, the sound of laughter echoing in the distance. He also sees naked flesh moving as one, longing - burning, _begging_ \- to be as close as they can get from each other, sweat beads on their foreheads or under their noses. It’s Steve, all of it, the one constant in his life, the one he’s been neglecting for a few years now. 

“You all good?” Fowler asks after his peaceful contemplation is over. 

“Oh yes, please go ahead, Robbie.” Macca whispers almost frantic.

So he does.

It’s been a while since he last went down on a man but he does not hesitate. He’s never been one to stall: do and think later. If anything, it’s Macca who has always pulled him out of scrapes, who has always been a sane head in all their little group of snotty, dreaming kids. Tonight, though, as the setting sun cast an orange glow on the city, Robbie plans on making him lose his head. He plans on reclaiming his exception in Steve’s life, to be Steve’s exception again. 

He’s doing a fine job so far, the blonde writhing under his slow, agonising, ministrations. 

The brunette is all about taking care of his best friend. It’s still messy however, in a purely classic Fowler style. It doesn’t mean it’s not brilliant - that they’re not brilliant. Because they are, they truly fucking are. 

When they’re both ready, they forget where one begins and where the other ends. They’re just a mess of limbs, hot and sweaty despite the chilly breeze coming from the ajar window, mixing their breaths, not knowing if it’s Robbie or Steve who laughs, or the both of them, convinced it’s only one and the same sound. 

It’s strange how they always seem to fit, no matter what happens between them. They could be apart for 30 years and would still somehow fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle, like it’s something that is just supposed to happen: Fowlers and McManamans are meant to be, them against the world and let’s drink to that, cheers. 

At some point they’re not sure if they’re laughing or moaning or both and Robbie knows they’re close to the sweet, sweet, release. He quickens his pace and cups Steve’s face in his hands. He wants to remember his face, every freckle, every shape they take while Macca’s face is painted with a brush of messy curls and grimaces, trying to hold it together as long as he can. 

He’s perfect. 

Robbie doesn’t particularly care for art but Steve? He would paint him every day if he knew how, he would buy sculptures of him if they existed. He cups his face to look directly into his eyes. He wants to engrave the image in his memory, take a picture of this moment forever, remember every little crease, every little line around Macca’s eyes and lips, the ones on his forehead Robbie tries to smooth with gentle fingers. 

Robbie seeks his mouth out, scraps at Steve’s lower lip but they’re out of breath, their moans now high-pitched cries they can barely keep for themselves. And it’s not like they care if someone hear them, not that anyone would anyway, that’s what you get when you can have a house with a good isolating system. 

Their ecstasy hits them hard, Steve first and then Robbie. The striker collapses on the pundit in an unceremonious _“oof”_ until he rolls over and they’re both looking at the ceiling, chests heaving and beads of sweat pearling their hair here and there, spent. Macca turns and brushes some strands that are stuck on Robbie’s forehead and the brunette can barely contain a fond smile tugging at his lips. He turns to the blonde-haired man, looking at him, the smile not leaving his face.

“What?” Steve finally asks

“We’re still very good at this.” 

“You’re a right wanker, you know that?” 

Robbie probably has something to say about the insult given his mischievous smile but Steve shuts him up. He kisses him first this time. 

*

Robbie doesn’t ever want to leave this bed, this house. He wants to stay here forever. Funny how six months ago he would have been scared, still confused as to where his career was going and now, he’s not as terrified as before. He thinks of Steve, he thinks of Liverpool - his home - and he thinks about Thailand and that’s where he’s not thrilled to go now. 

He should never have gone there, he knows that now. Typical. He’s always been more of an act-first-think-later type of lad and it’s only fitting he’s just the same in about any aspect of his life. He doesn’t complain about the money, it’s a part of the job and he accepts it with no fuss. But maybe - just maybe - he should have thought beyond his paycheck and the promise of a new country to discover. 

How can he leave when he’s finally at peace, comfortably nestled in the safety of Macca’s arms? How could he even want it when it took them so long to taste solace again, to take refuge in each other’s embrace? There’s only so much a man can bear before he breaks. 

He looks at Steve, sipping tea while sitting on the couch, his huge legs weirdly fitting on it. That is a sight he doesn’t want to lose, one he can’t tear away from so soon. 

He stays for another two weeks. 

He doesn’t even bother with pretence anymore, both he and the club are past façades, and he misses two league games. The fans renewed campaign to have him sacked is lost on him.

He doesn't have time to dwell when he has his best friend to face it all with.

*

He’s not sure how he boarded that plane but he did. He braces himself for a long and exhausting journey, one that will most likely fuck with his sleeping schedule and will definitely not help him focus on Muangthong. Does he even care anymore? That’s the question he needs to ask himself.  
(He already knows the answer. And it’s painted with wrinkles at the corner of blue eyes that have laughed often; with blonde curls that have turned sandy or grey on the temples.)

*

They finish third. 

Arguably, it’s not bad if one would look only at the position. But upon closer examination, they are twenty-five points behind their bitter rivals (or so Robbie was told they were) and it’s a complete disaster. So much for his dreams of being a proper gaffer. They still have the Cup final, though, Steve reminds him (he’s somehow managed to keep up with Thai football too apparently and not just with what Robbie tells him. Proper football obsessed, that one, the young coach thinks.)

They need to win that cup, at least he’d show he’s worth something, still worth a player, worth a promising trainer. They need to win, they need to win, they need to win.

Newsflash: they don’t win. 

But at least he puts on quite the show for his finale. He spreads his cut-off wings one last time on the green grass, giving the thailandese fans a run for their money for once, elegant and charming for what will be his swan song. He has not planned anything - he never really does, that’s how it is with him, right? - but he knows the moment has come. He knows professional football is ending for him. Or maybe it had ended long ago but he just never realised or had never wanted to. 

They lose the final, and of course he’s disappointed, but he can’t bring himself to be bothered too much by it, not if it had been with Liverpool for example. 

They lose the final and he feels like he can finally breathe properly in Thailand for the first time.  
*

**GOODBYE ROBBIE ?**  
_Ex-Liverpool and City striker leaves Muangthong United and spurs debate about possible retirement amongst fans and experts._

*

So that’s what it feels like to die, then? 

It’s not too bad he reckons.

He left Muangthong behind and just came back. And Steve is here. Of course. He’s here, a warm wall to rest against, long arms encircling Robbie’s frame. If the black-haired man had known it would feel this simple, maybe he’d have retired sooner. Or maybe he is just where he is supposed to be and nothing would have been this easy if he hadn’t been on his struggling journey. Maybe he would have regretted it and changed his mind, maybe Steve wouldn’t have been here. Probably.  
He pushes the thoughts aside. It's no time to dwell on the past and the what-might-have-beens. He is closing this chapter of his life for good, and letting go has demanded of him a lengthy preparation but now, he is finally ready. Maybe that’s how Macca had felt, when he had told him, all these months ago, that he had not been afraid. He figures that’s probably what this is. He’s waving goodbye to the snotty Toxteth kid with big eyes and scraped knees. That part of him will stick around, always, but it won’t take as much place as before. That one has accomplished what he needed to accomplish and that’s fine. There’s a new chapter to begin, new, blank, pages to fill with his ink, pages to write with four hands, not just two. That sounds like a plan he can get behind, one he definitely can think of living every day, engulfed in Macca’s comforting presence. 

And anyway, he’s never really retired, not officially. That’s how legends live on, right?

Right.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're still here: THANK YOU <3 !! I'd love to hear what you thought of this piece ! 
> 
> I owe everything, even the idea for this fic, to that [_to that article about Robbie's time in Thailand_](http://backpagefootball.com/robbie-fowler-thailand-tale-big-money-false-hope/114029/). Definitely worth a read ! 
> 
> Other details such as the _"kid who only grew up at 16"_ or the fact that the press first called him the _"Toxteth Terror"_ (which he hates for very obvious reasons) for example are taken from Robbie's autobiography (which I highly recommand, it's quality entertainment !)
> 
> The title was inspired by two songs by Swiss artist Stephan Eicher: _Pas d'Amis Comme Toi (No Friend Like You)_ and _Sans Vouloir te Commander (Please) _ which to me are two McGrowler anthems. The second song was especially a great source of inspiration for the smut part, I hope I was able to echo the mood of the song within my writing ! I recommand you to listen to these two songs, I can provide english translations ! 
> 
> I also listened to a bunch of songs while writing and some of them heavily helped me write certain scenes so if you ever want to have a go, you can [_check out this youtube playlist I've assembled_](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4MsQ0nJkAA922UARu1qzJZtVu1xEWLOX). The last three songs are bonuses as they were more references rather than regular listens while writing. 
> 
> Again, would love to hear from you and what you thought of this fic !
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr : [filippoinzaghi](https://filippoinzaghi.tumblr.com/)


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